Nine

After skiing or roller skating, when you lay down, it still feels like you’re moving. For hours after a boat ride, the solid ground beneath your feet seems to pitch and roll. That’s how I felt after Kris.

I lay awake in the dark, replaying every kiss, remembering the silky fall of his hair and the downy brush of his beard. If you move a sparkler quickly enough, you can leave a trail of bright fire in the sky. The imprint tonight reads Kris’ name.

I wonder if he’s thinking of me. I wonder if he compares me to her, the girl who left wounds still fresh and stinging. Maybe I’m a stitch meant to seal, maybe I’m just a salve to ease the pain. Everything about Kris says that he is deeply invested in us already. But I have never known someone so sensitive, so open about his own vulnerability. Perhaps this is simply Kris’ way to being, if it were possible to make the entire world fall madly in love with you. Tomorrow’s date cannot come fast enough.

The next day I have a message after my noon appointment. Kris is done with practice and wants to know if he can pick me up at six. I dial his number.

“’Ello, Riley.”

“Hi Kris. I got your message. Six tonight is great.”

“Is there anything you don’t like? I was thinking about Italian food.”

“That sounds perfect.”

My hands shake as I snap my phone shut. The afternoon drags on, my mind wanders through the story of last night then spills into predicting tonight’s events: tt goes well, then badly, then another good scenario. I’m making myself crazy. By five thirty I’m laughing at myself in front of the bathroom mirror. I choose a cute black dress with boots and a chunky necklace of green beads. There’s even time for half a glass of wine before my phone rings and Kris is here.

He stands at the passenger side of his car waiting for me. His hair is pushed back and he wears dark slacks under a long jacket with a red scarf. He looks like the mysterious love interest in a foreign movie.

“You look beautiful.” His voice has no edges, just waves and curls.

“Thank you.” I gather my bearings before kissing his cheek, but that only lasts only a second. We both turn and our lips connect gently, melting into a real kiss. Everything I have goes toward not opening my mouth and fully making out with him on the sidewalk. My next job will be training the Army to withstand torture.

His hand closes around my wrist – not body contact, surely we couldn’t handle that, but the imperative that he wants me to keep kissing him. In reality I can’t or I will lose my mind. I press my lips together and smile, his cheek still touching my nose. He laughs softly and licks his lips.

“You taste like berries.”

I could climb this building like Spider-Man and have his clothes off faster than a paramedic in an emergency. Instead I press one more short kiss to his lips and lower myself into his sexy car.

We talk a little on the way to dinner. If hormones were liquid this car would fill and we’d both drown. By the time we reach the tiny Italian restaurant I am gasping for air. Our table is for an intimate two-some, so small that sitting across from each other is like sitting on each others’ laps. The low lighting makes everyone look beautiful, and thus turns Kris’ already perfect face into something resembling the white light you walk toward when it’s time to ascend to Heaven.

Gorgeous dark hair falls into his face so that I almost miss it. He breaks a piece of bread, looking down at the dish of oil and vinegar mixed on the table. There’s surely garlic in it. A shy little smile crosses his lips before he dunks the bread and eats it. Now I can have some too, and still kiss him later.

“Tell me about growing up in Montreal.”

Kris recounts his childhood, playing hockey on any available surface like all the other kids. He is an only child, so hand-me-down equipment came from neighbors and that embarrassed him. Still he says everyone had cast off jerseys with duct taped rips and battered, scuffed helmets. It wasn’t until he got to juniors that he ever played with anything new. He talks about his mother and step father traveling to games, waking up before dawn to drive to the ends of the frozen north. Their support obviously meant a lot to him. I picture this soft-spoken kid, gangly in the way that only teen boys can be, searching the stands in some windswept town for his parents’ faces.

The first course arrives and it’s delicious antipasti, accompanied by a glass of red wine. When the food is gone but the wine isn’t, Kris reaches across the table for my hand. He tells me about being drafted in the third round and how hard it was to sit and wait, feeling like he’d been punched every time the name called wasn’t his.

“No one drafted before you was the number one All-Star vote-getting defenseman in the NHL this year,” I point out. It makes him smile.
____

Riley is a really good listener. I usually don’t tell too much of this to girls I’d dated – it wasn’t a sad growing up at all, it just wasn’t flashy. Probably my childhood was like everyone else’s – not very sexy. More than anything I worry girls will find me boring. Of course when I ask about them, they tell me what they had for lunch every day in grade eight and the license place of every car they’ve ever driven.

Over entrees of pasta and cream sauce and other things I shouldn’t be eating, she tells me about growing up in New Jersey and going to college in California. She studied English but got into massage therapy there and pursued that education later. Her light eyes seem darker in the sultry lighting and her skin is smooth where I circle my thumb over hers.

“I missed the winters, so I moved home. But it was too much like high school – most people never left, still the same stupid fights and stories. I visited Pittsburgh for a wedding and decided it was the place for me. Massage therapy is not the highest-paying job there is, but it goes a pretty long way here.”

I’m struck by an urge I never get – to tell her about my best friend Luc who was killed in a motorcycle accident. This story is sad but it’s important to me and I feel at this point I’d be keeping it from her. So I start the short version, the one I can get through without crying. As always, the mention of his name makes the tattoo on my arm tingle like the needles are etching my skin again. Her fingers tighten around mine.

“I know some of this, about him. If you don’t want to talk about it.”

I lean over the tiny table and kiss her. It’s not that I don’t want to talk about Luc and Riley has already seen me vulnerable. But I really don’t want to tell a sad story on our first real date, when we should be having fun together. I’ve been a downer since we met, with the exception of last night in the bar, and I know she’ll quickly tire of me moping around. So I catch her soft lips to mine with relief.

“Someday,” she says, making it clear she’s ready to hear when I’m ready to talk.

I order another round of wine and tell her gossip from the team. She knows a few stories about Marc, apparently he tries out some of his pranks on Vero before perfecting them. Max and Jordan are a source of endless hilarity as well – not just their drunken carousing, but some of their stunts are so highly organized she is amazed.

“Once on a high school field trip, the guys in my class wrestled this girl Megan into a chair and taped her to it. Like mummified her with tape. She couldn’t touch the floor. Then they put the chair in the elevator and just left her sitting there. It was a good twenty minutes before someone pushed her out into the lobby, but then it was even more hilarious.”

I start thinking… and she cuts me off. “You guys could get Conner, maybe. He’s little.”

When the dessert menu comes, Riley suggests we go somewhere else for a treat. I’m warm and happy here but once the dinner is over, the night is over. Probably. I’ll do anything to make it last longer – hopefully she wants to have desert in Washington, DC. She lets me help her into her coat, and I sneak my hand across the soft, inviting skin of her arm. We could wait inside, but as we stand on the sidewalk she nestles in close to my side. Totally worth the temperature drop.
____

“I have two ideas for dessert,” I announce. I simply cannot take the waiting anymore and I need to know where this is going tonight before I lose my mind. “There’s a great ice cream sundae place nearby, or we could go to the market and make our own sundaes.”

That’s right, I just invited myself over. Kris weighs the options like he might be trying to save me from myself.

“Market,” he says.

In the most unladylike move of the night, I laugh.

Kris drives in the direction I recognize to be toward his house. Maybe it’s because he knows where the grocery stores are. Maybe he thinks coming over to my place would be too presumptuous. Maybe maybe maybe. Damn. We’re out of place in the 24-hour supermarket, me in my high heels and Kris in his fancy coat. I settle on Neopolitan ice cream while he loads up on hot fudge and whipped cream. On second thought, this is probably a bad idea. When he adds a jar of Maraschino cherries I almost whimper. He’s gotten infinitely more playful and confident as the night has gone on, which I hope means he’s having fun. I want him to feel comfortable and safe around me.

The checkout clerk is sixteen, female and I think she gets her first orgasm the moment she sees Kris. I want to tell her I know how she feels – no one should look that good under florescent lighting. Oblivious to his own powers, Kris just swipes his card. When we get to his house, I feel awkward stomping around in my high heels. I place them inside the door, lined up next to some of Kris’ shoes and boots, and walk barefoot into the kitchen. I have the stuff all lined up on the counter before he comes back.

“So your feet aren’t cold,” he says, holding out a pair of white tube socks. I pull the socks on, slouch them down and know with absolute certainty that I have met the nicest guy in the world. I busy myself warming the hot fudge so he’ll scoop the ice cream, just a blatant excuse to watch him flex. He lines up two bowls, I spoon chocolate onto them and he shakes the whipped cream. Then he holds it upside down, in the air, toward my face.

“You want to,” he says. I let him put it right into my mouth. It’s delicious and cold and ridiculously suggestive. This is Kris coming out of his shell. When he’s done and we’re both laughing, he brings his thumb up to wipe a smear from my bottom lip then licks his own finger.

Dear God.
____

Riley is testing me. I left her alone last night and she’s dying to know if I’ll do it again. If I’m even capable of it. For all I know Vero or the boys have told her a million stories of hockey players behaving badly – some of them could have been about me, and few of them may have even been true. But I don’t sense that she’s afraid of being loved and left. If anything, she might think I’m afraid to get that close.

I’m not afraid. I’m not even hesitant. Getting to know Riley, as much as one date will allow, has confirmed everything I couldn’t believe I felt before.

She sits next to me on the couch, feet tucked up underneath her in my bright white socks. I allow myself a single victorious thought – Anna would never have done that. She’d have changed her whole outfit or frozen to death before she wore tube socks with a dress, even around me. Then the thought is gone from my mind because Riley is making me jealous of a spoon.

“This is really good,” she says. The warm chocolate is amazing on the ice cream, and I also taste vanilla and strawberry. Three flavors plus all the toppings and whipped cream – there’s a lot going on one my tongue right now. Riley makes a face like it’s the taste of pure joy and I have to know, right then, if it’s the same for her as me. I toss her bowl onto the coffee table and kiss her.

Warm and cold, the soft chocolate and the sharp bite of strawberry plus the velvety surface of her tongue – the taste is even better on Riley. Her surprise lasts a moment before she’s kissing me back. It would be so easy to pull her into my lap or throw her down on sofa, but instead I stay still and just lose myself in the kiss. There was simply no way it could have been as good as I remembered from last night. Not just sweet or sexy, the way kissing a beautiful woman should feel, but honest and fun and sure. I hadn’t had fun or been sure in a long time.

“Sorry,” I say when we come up for air, handing Riley back her dessert. “I had to see if….”

She waves her spoon. “Wait, let me get ready again.”

We laugh, but as soon as she’s gotten two bites I’m kissing her again. This time I bring her toward me until her knees rest atop my thigh, leaving enough room between us for some good decision making. Maybe. Still my hand sneaks up the smooth curve of her arm.

It’s like a car wash inside my brain. A high pressure rinse of a dingy room - suddenly there are colors I remember, places so long covered by dust I had forgotten their existence. Spring cleaning maybe; clearing the doubt that lingers after you are well and truly defeated.

I’m so lost in the kiss that I don’t register familiar sounds. A hundred cars have pulled into my driveway, and thousand people climbed the steps. Even the jingle of keys doesn’t break my reverie.

Until the door opens and Anna is standing there.
____

Eight

It’s exactly like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Riley gasps, her mouth open slightly so she steals the breath from my lungs. Her lips are soft and the sharp light of pain goes out behind my eyes. There’s nothing else but this kiss. She doesn’t pull away, doesn’t turn or run. It takes a long moment but she leans slowly forward and secures her mouth to mine.

We don’t move, nothing more than our lips touching and the feel of breathing together. I could stay there in the dark kissing her forever. I don’t even register time passing – until the door opens, throwing light against the wall. We nearly fall off the bench jumping apart. I crack an eyelid in panic and am relieved the light doesn’t sear into my brain.

“Guess you’re alright then?” Coach chuckles. He wants to be mad or at least stern but the strain of trying not to laugh shows on his face. “You two done playing doctor?”

“Oh my God,” Riley says, putting her head onto my shoulder. Then she jerks backward, her face twisted, finally registering the smell of my gear. Coach loses it and laughs out loud.

“Come on, Tanger.” He leaves, but the door stays open.

I turn toward Riley. She’s biting her lip sheepishly, wondering if we’re in trouble, wondering what just happened between us. But I know for sure. I kiss her again, more squarely this time. Her eyelids flutter closed for a second. I put my hand to her cheek and move my lips to her forehead.

“Thank you,” I say. I’m grateful for so many things.

She smiles. “Be careful.”
____

Kris hustles from the room, not slowing under the blazing hallway lights. I guess he feels okay. I feel like a Sno-Cone in the machine: bright blue and red, whipping around and yet somehow frozen at the same time.

Kiss.

He pulled me in hard. It was a confident move and surprised me more than the kiss itself. Then his lips were smooth, holding still and simply asking permission to keep devastating me. My mouth replied eagerly.

And then he thanked me. I should be thanking him.

I climb down from the table and test my legs. I would fail a sobriety field test for sure, but I manage to trip along the route I took to get here. The stairs down to our seats are tougher, but I see Vero searching for me.

“What?” Her face is close, her eyes narrowed as she searches mine. I open my mouth but nothing comes out, gaping like a fish. Finally I find my breath.

“He kissed me.”

Vero about faints with relief. She actually lets her knees bend and slumps down into midair. Then she’s back up, pulling me by the hand toward the concourse. Right through the teeming crowd of snack-and-beer buyers, we tuck into a far corner against the wall.

“WHAT?!” A couple of people turn at her shriek and I’m very glad she didn’t do that at the seats. We’d have to tell the whole section. Without waiting for my answer, she throws her arms around me then suddenly freezes. “Wait. Did you kiss him back? I mean, did you… do you want to?” Again no words will come so I just nod. Now she hugs me like a squid. I tell her the whole story, stopping so she can squee loudly and often. Her hand beats at my arm. By the time I’m done, she’s vibrating so hard she’s blurry.

Deep breath. “Riley,” she says, “you are good for him. I know you have doubts but I know Kris. I wouldn’t support this unless I was sure. And he can be so good for you, he will be. He doesn’t know how to be bad.”

Screaming erupts from the arena as the Pens take the ice for the third period. I know Kris will be there and I feel magnetized to the ice – I must see him. More than knowing he’s really okay, I have to know he’s even real. Vero keeps her hand on my arm throughout the period. Kris takes a few shifts but the Pens are up and his presence is less obligatory. I wish away the final four minutes then cheer madly at the buzzer to dispel some of my nervous energy.
____

I can’t get off the ice quickly enough. I hardly played in the period, just to be sure I wasn’t hurt. We’re thrilled with the win and two points, but I have some unfinished business to take care of. Coach talks as we strip off our gear and as soon as he’s done, I’m in the shower then into a suit.

“Buchanan’s?” Jordan suggests a local bar. It’ll be slow on a Monday but the boys want to celebrate. I catch Marc staring at me – he can always tell when something is going on.

“Let me check with Vero,” he bails me out.

They’re next door in the lounge. They have to be. I am afraid to go in there in case I maul her in front of everyone. What will she think if I don’t? I already did that once tonight. What will she think if I do, that I assume she’s as into this as I am? Maybe she just didn’t want to shoot me down in the middle of a game. After all I was practically helpless already. There’s still a chance she’s going to let me down easy and walk away, sending me back to my empty house feeling as lonely as it ever did. The thought anchors itself in my mind and I slow, fixing my tie needlessly and fiddling with my bag.

“Mon ami, ready?” Flower asks. His perma-smile only makes me send up a wish that I am not wrong. I follow him out like a man awaiting trial. The lounge is loud and crowded after a good win and Vero’s head bobs above the others, then she moves and I see Riley. My fears evaporate immediately. She’s got the sleeves of my sweater twisted into her fists and she chews her lip uncertainly, pretending to listen. Her mind is somewhere else but when she catches me staring, I know that I’m the place.

I really like her. I really want her. Seeing her here, surrounded by the people Anna feared and envied, I know that Riley is different. And I think that maybe because of her I can be different too.

Without so much as a tiny falter of step, Riley dodges the bodies between us. Her palms press the cuffs of the oversized sweater to my cheeks. That’s where she hesitates – unsure if I want to do it again, if I want everyone to know. My shyness has been a plague lately. But now… I feel new. And so I kiss her squarely on the lips. It only lasts a moment but it nails me to the floor.

“You okay?” she asks.

I don’t say anything to Marc or Vero. I just grab Riley’s hand and lead her away from the lounge, past the locker room. By the time we’re in the hall we’re running. She doesn’t bother to put her coat on, we just jog through the lot and I open my car with the remote. Before we’ve stopped sliding across our respective seats, we’re kissing again.
____

If Kris turns on this seat warmer, I will have an orgasm. His hands are in my hair, holding me close as if I ever intend to stop kissing him. His surprisingly strong tongue is velvety in my mouth as we paw at each other over the center console. He only breaks the contact to speak.

“Riley, I’m sorr…,” he starts.

“Don’t. Don’t apologize for what someone else did to you. You have every right to be hurt and sad and I don’t want to rush yo….”

He puts his fingers over my mouth. “I was going to say that I’m sorry I waited so long to kiss you. You deserved to know before now.”

I go all one-dimensional as the tension and nerves and blood drain out of my body and leave me shellacked to the seat. I speak into his hand. “It’s only been five days.”

“And I should have known on the first one.” He pulls his fingers from my lips and draws me in gently for another kiss. I sigh like a Mouseketeer. “Do you want to go out with the guys?”

I want to rip the steering wheel out and throw it through the sun roof so I can climb into his lap. But that’s not the way this should be – we’re going slow, for each other. It seemed to take a lifetime to get where we are now. We’re not firmly in the track yet, we shouldn’t be moving at high speed no matter how much my mind is racing into the red.

“Okay.”

He can’t hold my hand and drive the standard transmission, so he places it softly back in my lap like he’s sad to see it go. For the first time since we met I stare openly at his profile – the strong jaw fuzzed over with beard, the upturned point of his nose. His eyes slide toward me, catching me and he smiles.

We’re the first ones to the bar. Maybe Kris planned it that way. All I know is he takes a space at the far end of the lot, kills the lights and kisses me again. His hair, his lips, his smell – everyone about him is so soft. Well maybe not everything, but I’m getting ahead of myself. I push the thought away as my hands twist into his gorgeous locks. He has one hand on the back of my neck and the other on my cheek, again holding me close against the threat of running away.

Tap tap.

I fly up like it’s an ejector seat. Max and Jordan grin down wolfishly through the glass outside my window, waving like idiots. Kris chuckles and pushes his hair from his face.

“Are you okay with this? That everyone knows? I should have asked you, before I just kissed you where they could all see.”

“Kris, I’m happy.”

Relief quickly washes over his features, followed by that tiny glimmer of gratitude I’ve seen in his eyes. I’m certainly not doing him any favors and I don’t like the uneven footing we seem to always be on. I catch his arm before he can open the door to leave.

“Hey,” I say and he turns. Then I kiss him, hard and sure, to the sound of Max and Jordan howling outside. It surprises him but he quickly eases into it. For twenty or thirty seconds, I try my best to convey a message without words. When we break apart I say it anyway, just in case. “I want this too.”
____

She must be reading my mind. I don’t question the spark between us, the connection that I have felt since I met her. But if I can’t be the guy for her, someone else will. One of my teammates will want her – hell, they all want her. But one or two of them are actually good people and I wouldn’t want to take her away from something that could make her happy.

“I want this too,” she says.

She wants me. The words coat like medicine as they travel down my nervous system. Jordan practically lifts her from the car and hugs her, then passes her to Max. They’re beaming like idiots – Riley will think I’ve never had any luck with girls before the way these two carry on. But she teases them back and when I come near, reaches for my hand. Jordan whistles like he’s seem something impressive.

“Lucky bastard,” he bumps against me, knocking me into Riley.

I squeeze her hand and let myself get cheesy for a second. “I know.”

They roll in ahead of us and tell everyone, so when I hold the door open for Riley it’s like we’re being announced at our wedding reception. If our reception were ten people in an otherwise empty bar with a sad Johnny Cash song on the jukebox. But my friends are smiling and more than a few look relieved. Vero doesn’t even wait for me to drop Riley’s hand: she hugs me tight and I feel how my pain has hurt her. She’s like the mother bear to our little group of cubs and when we’re in trouble, she gets defensive. I return her hug, adding it to the list of things I’m thankful for.

But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. If Riley and I are even a couple, it’s been exactly two hours and ten minutes. Hardly time to cut the cake. After the initial excitement, and aside from the fact that Riley’s legs are pressed against mine under the table, things go quickly back to the way they’ve always been. Max hits on the waitress, Jordan hits on the waitress, Kelsey makes fun of TK when he tries to hit on the waitress. We laugh and talk and hockey comes up every five seconds. I hook my foot around Riley’s, order her another drink, and for the first time in ages, just relax.

It ends to soon, the way things always do when you’re trying to remember them. I hope that someday this will be The Night. The night we got together, the night we kissed. I’m looking forward to looking back on this day.

“Can I take you out tomorrow? On a date?” I ask, leaning in far closer than is necessary and breathing the clean, fruity scent of her hair. She left my jersey in the car but didn’t change – she just wears a plain black long-sleeved t-shirt. A silver hoop earring taps against my jaw as I speak.

“A first date? I’m kinda nervous,” she says. Her lips are so close it’s a miracle she gets a word out at all. Everyone pretends they’re still talking but I feel them watching.

“Me too,” I admit. She nods and it all goes sideways – I push my lips to hers and get a whole second before someone starts clinking glasses together. She lifts one hand and slowly, almost gracefully gives them the finger. TK calls for another round.

We leave the bar to a chorus of “wear a rubber” and “pulling out doesn’t work!” I blush hotly and realize there might be a decision to make. Any other guy would have taken her straight home from the rink. But I want to do this right. I wanted to take her out to slow things down a bit. If we race right to the end there may be nothing left to wake up to.

“Where do you live?” I ask when I’m safely behind the wheel.

The low, smooth ride of the car feels sexy as I glance at her, watching the world slide past by the lights of dash. She twists her long neck, illuminated in the faint glow, and I almost groan. I want so badly to kiss her, love her, take her home and make her my prisoner. She see me in the reflection.

“I knew you’d take me home.”

It catches me off guard. “I… uh, do you want to….”

“No,” she smiles honestly. “This feels right.”

I brush the back of my hand up her thigh before returning it to shift gears. Riley turns her shoulders and angles toward me. “It’s not that I don’t want….” Want to what? Tear your clothes off? Hear you moan my name and map your ticklish spots and wipe sweat from your brow? I clear my mind by clearing my throat. “This isn’t easy,” I confess.

“Worse for me,” she shrugs.

Hardly! But I don’t yell. I simply ask, “How’s that?”

Again she looks out the window. “I’ve seen you almost naked.”
____

Seven

Deryk Engelland thought I need some more inspiration, so he challenged Kris to a playfight at practice for the second day in row. Only this time he stripped his jersey, pads and shirt off. The best moment is at 5:40, when Kris tries twice to put it back on before giving up. EPIC.

Engelland & Tanger Playground Battle
____
SEVEN

She can see my car from the lobby so I pull slowly out of the parking lot. I can’t really read the street signs and I’m color blind to the lights. For a few minute there I was alright – I said goodbye, I even touched her. Then as she stepped into my arms and pressed her body against mine, I knew there was more of that positive energy, that healing power I’d felt from her hands. My lips brushed her cheek on their own, I didn’t plan that. It left me breathless and shaken, like shock setting in.

I get home in a haze, pull into the garage and sit thinking of how she’d been there the night before. Those steps, that door. Riley had come right into my life. In four days she had done more for me than Anna had done in months.

Anna. It’s the first time I’ve thought of her all day.

It should be midnight, but it’s not even dark. I occupy myself all afternoon by turning the idea of Riley over in my mind. Her smile, her laugh: little things that seem to mean so much when you’re first learning someone. Her touch – well, I think about that too much and have to take myself to the shower before I can finish. But mostly I just roll around in the feeling of something good and positive. It feels like a warm new coat.

Around dinnertime the euphoria starts to wear off. She is all the things I’ve been thinking, deserves all the things I’ve been imagining. But as my clothes rub away the feel of her hands, I remember that I’m not the guy to give her any of that. I’m broken, damaged. A few days worth of feeling can’t make up for months of numbness. Infatuation is the easy part – by the time you get to the real stuff, I’m obviously not cut out for it. And by then it’s too late. Now I’m onto this, feeding myself a boring dinner like punishment as I argue myself back to where I belong. Then my phone buzzes. Fuck, this is a conspiracy.

Riley: How are you feeling?

Call her, I tell myself. Don’t wuss out and text, listen to her voice. If you’re going to get past the possibility of her and you, you have to man up. She’s a good person, be nice, be friends. Just friends.

“Hey Kris.” The sound of her voice makes my stomach drop. “Feeling okay?”

The massage released toxins from my cramped muscles into my bloodstream. I feel them now – unsettled, unbalanced. Her concerned tone makes me want to cry. “Oui, I am good. I feel good.”

“Well don’t forget to drink a lot of water. You had a lot going on there – if it doesn’t get out of your body it can make you sick.”

The beer I have with dinner glares at me from the counter. “You give good advice.”

“Tell me that tomorrow when you’re feeling like a new man.”
____

Why are you texting him? I ask as I hit the send button. Because I have been un-texting him for hours: tapping out a message, deleting it, writing another. There are only a thousand ways to ask someone how they’re doing and I’m on nine hundred ninety-nine. I have to do something or I’m going to explode.

I drifted through my last client of the day, not remembering anything about the session except the stiffness in my hands brought to mind the sense memory of Kris’ body. He was such a mess, so vulnerable, so grateful. For once I actually had really done something for him and it felt great.

I settle on the simplest version of the message and send it off. A minute later my phone rings. Aw crap.

“Oui, I am good. I feel good.” He sounds a little hesitant, or maybe he’s just tired. After all I don’t know him that well. And beyond my text I can’t think of anything to say, so I give him some lame advice about water.

“Tell me that tomorrow when you’re feeling like a new man.” I sound like a Hallmark card but he surprises me.

“Come early again, eh? Five thirty like last time? Or we won’t get to say hello before the game.”

When he’s off, I already know it is twenty-two hours until five-thirty tomorrow and they will pass with agonizing slowness. I stare at the phone and wonder what the hell I’m going to do now that I have totally fallen for this brokenhearted guy.

The time inches by – I can’t sleep long enough to make a dent, work is slow. I even finish my book and have to leave lunch early. By four o’clock I’m practically pacing my room, Kris’ jersey hung over the footboard and all my clothing strewn across the floor. Finally I settle on jeans and boots and stuff a nicer top into my bag in case we go out.

Out. In case we go out.

I’m losing it.

Vero arrives just in time to keep me from biting my nails. “Penguins taxi service!”

I don’t want to tell her that her plan has worked. I don’t want to admit how much I feel something that is obviously not going to happen. Kris has made no secrets about being hurt and fragile. This is no time to be taking advantage of someone’s weakness. I put on a calm face that lasts across town and through the locker room door.

“Riley!” TK yells. He is like a puppy that ate Pixie Stix. It makes me smile to see him so happy – he’s been playing really well lately. Jordan greets me with a hug and then Max as well, reminding me how easy it is to be friends with these guys.

“Someone will be glad you’re here,” Max doesn’t bother to whisper. We both look up as Kris comes in from the equipment room. He’s wearing a t-shirt over small spandex shorts. Very small. One glimpse of those thighs and the thought of my hands on them – my vision blurs.

“Bonjour, Riley.” He puts his skates down and stands in front of me. One of his hands goes into my hair and he kisses me on one cheek then the other. I stand still as a toy solider and equally open-mouthed. His breath is soft against my ear as he whispers. “Don’t tell the other guys you do massage, okay? You will never get a moment’s peace.”

“Okay.” It gives me something to do with my face: a smile. We chat with everyone for a few minutes and Marc asks me to test his pads by kicking them as hard as I can. Coach walks in while I’m wailing away on Marc’s legs like Jackie Chan.

“Interesting technique,” he says with a raised eyebrow. “You must be Riley.”

“How do you know that?” I shake his hand.

He shrugs. “Heard someone around here was wearing Tanger’s number.”

That’s our cue to leave. We wish everyone luck and I give Kris what I hope is an extra little wave. He gives me an extra smile. In the lounge, Vero throws herself down on an empty couch.

“Oh my God he loves you.”

“Oh shut up, he does not.”

She sits up very tall. “What were you two whispering about?”

Jesus, she could double as a spy satellite. She’d been all the way over talking to Crosby when that happened. And now there is absolutely no way out of telling her the truth.

“I told you I got Kris an appointment at the studio yesterday, because his neck is so messed up. Well that therapist couldn’t make it. So I did it.”

Her mouth falls open like a cartoon character, several flights of stairs down to her chin. And before she can even think of something incredulous to say she bursts out laughing. Her arms go around me and she rocks us back and forth in hysterics. I catch the giggles and we go to laughland, wheezing and gasping until we are spent.

“Oh Riley,” she wipes at her eyes. “You are too much! I bring you to dinner, you go to his house. I bring you to a game, you wear his sweater. And now you’re just doing it on your own! Girl, I feel useless!”

“No, it’s not like that. It was an accident. And it was nice, I mean, I actually did something for him. Instead of him looking all thankful when I hadn’t lifted a finger.”

“I told you, he just needs someone to take care of him a little.”

I have to shake my head at that. It would be easy to ignore it because I want to, but not fair. “I have taken it as far as I can, V. I’m trained for physical therapy, I know what I’m doing. The rest of what he needs… that part is not coming from me.”

“You’re wrong,” she says. “He doesn’t need someone with all the answers. Just someone who’s willing to try. Give him time, he’ll come around. Maybe sooner than you think.”

I look right at her because this is important. “I don’t want to hurt him again.”

“That’s why you won’t.”
____

That was hard. I sit in my stall and pretend to examine my skates, but I think about Riley. She was here, bright as day, wearing my jersey again like it was the easiest thing in the world. Something that used to weigh a ton is now lighter than a feather. I knew she would wear it but the sight of her made me feel ten feet tall.

I really like her. It’s too much, too soon and I’m rebounding like a basketball, but there is no denying the punch to the gut I felt when I saw her tonight. The soft scent of her skin when I kissed her cheeks – both cheeks, so greedy – and the softness of her hair in my hand. I asked her not to tell the guys because they’ll all want her touch and I can’t handle that.

I spent last night trying to figure out a way this could work, a way that I deserve to have her in my life. I couldn’t come up with any but my mind has not stopped trying. Every time I roll my shoulders and actually get 360 degrees, I feel her hands on my skin.

“Where are you sitting?” I ask Vero quietly. She cuts her eyes toward Riley, obviously knowing I don’t want her to repeat this. She tells me the seat numbers and ‘I told you so.’

The game starts well and I really feel good. We roll into a 2-0 lead, then it’s 3-0 just into the second. I glance toward their seats a few times but it’s tough to make out who’s who in the sea of bodies. Tampa Bay keeps rolling at us and I’m watching Stamkos like a hawk. They come flying down the ice on a rush, wrap it around and set up at the near point. I get into position as Lecavalier lines up a slap shot.

And that’s the last thing I see before I’m flat on my back, blinded by the overhead arena lighting.

“Tanger! Tanger!” It’s the trainer, kneeling next to me. I didn’t pass out but I am dazed. I focus on him and he sighs loudly. A stick taps my thigh: Sidney leaning over with a worried look on his face.

“Alright, eh?”

The trainer helps me sit up, asking me to move my head and neck. Apparently the puck deflected off a stick In front and rode up into the side of my helmet. The bounce took some of the momentum but it still knocked me off my feet. They haul me up and Sid skates me to the bench with the trainer under my other side. I get my feet in the hallway and start walking, no balance problems. But I am worried – I’ll certainly have a headache and that can easily trigger a migraine. The pulse of fear beats through my body as I waddle toward the trainer’s room. I know how bad a migraine can be and there’s nothing worse than waiting for it to arrive.

The trainer knows too. He checks me out quickly: light to the eyes, moving my head around. All things I won’t be able to bear if a migraine comes. Dehydration is a trigger, and by this time in a game I am always fighting it. He gives me a full water bottle, two pills and tells me to stay still. The pills are strong migraine paid medication that often cause my muscles to spasm. Obviously I can’t play like that, so I almost never take them.

I have played with headaches before; all but the worst and I can endure. It seems a lousy reason to let the team down, because it can’t be explained or controlled. I sit quietly and feel one building. My helmet is gone but my pads and sweater stay on – if it’s not that bad, I’ll go back out.

The first thing is my neck starts to cramp. They warned me I’d have whiplash from the shot to the head. It twitches then coils, winding itself down. Behind my eyes a little point of pain begins to form. It could still go either way. The trainer comes back in and I know exactly what I need.

“Can you get my friend Riley? She’s in 118, Row K seat 2. With Vero.”
____

Kris goes down like a bag of bricks. I nearly jump out of my boots. Vero wraps her hand in mind and holds fast until he is on his feet and skating toward the bench. Just knocked for a loop, we assure each other. Saying “concussion” out loud is worse than telling an actor good luck before he goes on stage. I know that trauma can trigger a migraine and hope the hit was looked worse than it felt. The game goes on and I fail to concentrate. Ten minutes later, a hand appears on my shoulder.

“Riley?” It’s a man in a Pens coaching staff uniform. “He’s okay. But could you come with me?”

I give Vero a look and follow the man up the stairs.
____

My neck already hurts like a bitch but that white spot of pain hasn’t grown into a flare. The lights are out anyway, they can trigger an episode just as easily as the pain. As it is, the migraine won’t be too bad. I know because the sharp tapping sound moving down the hallway doesn’t stab me like a knife. It’s Riley and, bless her heart, she’s running.

“Close your eyes,” she whispers as she slides in and shuts the door. It’s near complete darkness. “Where are you?”

“Ten steps left.”

I can picture her short-stepping with her hands stretched out in front. She shuffles and giggles. “Sorry.” I reach out and hit her arm then grab it and pull her over.

“Hi,” she whispers, feeling around. I make a little room for her to sit on the edge. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I don’t think a bad one is coming. But my neck hurts. Do you think you could….”

“Roll onto your side.”

She feels her way up to my neck and I know that I’m a sweaty mess. My hair is soaked but it doesn’t stop her, she presses her thumbs into the points at the base of my skull that feel like stones. I make a pathetic noise. Her hands move down over the inflamed tendons. It’s actually painful but I know it’s better than waking up stiff as a board tomorrow. That will definitely give me a migraine. I hiss as she digs below the collar of my jersey.

“Shhh,” she says absentmindedly. She’s busy working, finding the spots that need the most help. “Is the trainer jealous you wouldn’t let him do this?”

I almost laugh. “I told you, they’re mean. It hurts enough already.”

As if I were asking her to stop, she simply holds her hand over the back of my neck. It’s a simple thing and very effective. My injured muscles throb but the rest of me begins to relax. Then she puts her other hand on my cheek and runs it up through my hair.

“I’m so sweaty,” I say sheepishly.

“You were playing a great game.”

“I think I’m okay.” I start to sit up on the table, giving her more room near my bent knees. The next test is to turn on a light but not yet. She’s so close to me, touching my bare skin in the dark. In here I can be anyone, I can be healed and ready and brave. She came running when I needed her – that is beyond any caring I have known in a long time.

“Should I try a light?”

“One second,” I say. I need to decide right now.

“Wait till you’re ready.” Riley has no idea what question she is answering. Her hand slides from the back of my neck as I get into a sitting position. We’re facing each other but I’m not sure where she is. I catch her hand as it moves down my sweater, pull her close in the complete darkness, and kiss her.
____

I’m scared. Vero’s seen a thousand hockey games and a million minor injuries but I heal people for a living. The idea of someone I care about hurt gives me stomach pains. When the guy came for me, I was so relieved to have something to do.

Kris is alone in the dark – I imagine it’s a metaphor for what his life has felt like. But maybe not anymore. He makes room for me and I feel the angry, swollen muscles in his neck pulsing with blood that tries desperately to minimize the damage. Hisses and curses sneak from his lips as I try my best not to hurt him any worse. That’s what I’m really afraid of after all.

He’s a trooper. He wants to go out and play, pain or no. Kris is resilient in a way that doesn’t apply to normal people and I think maybe, maybe he’s got it in him to bounce back from his broken relationship. If he wants to.

And I guess he does. Because in that dark room, on the little bench wearing his soaked hockey gear, Kris pulls me close and kisses me.
____

Six

“You did what?!” Vero screams into the phone. I hear something fall in the background – probably Marc reacting to her shriek. It’s Sunday morning and I have probably interrupted their breakfast.

“I had dinner at Kris’ last night. I ran into him at the supermarket and….”

“Woohoo!” She’s off dancing and I wait. I can hear her telling Marc in the background; it’s two full minutes before she comes back on the line. “Okay, tell me exactly everything.”

I called her to do just that. Not only am I anxious to talk it through with someone, but Vero lives for this stuff. She says she’s over the hill and boring because she’s nearly-married to Marc. It is her goal in life to see his friends happily paired off so she’ll have other women to grow old with.

“I ran into him at the store, and he was buying like a single serving dinner. It was so sad, V. I had cart full of food of course, because I am a huge pig, and it must have made him feel so alone. He invited me over – yes, he asked me – and I said I would cook.” I can hear her grinding her teeth, trying not to interrupt. “So we cooked and ate and it was… he seemed really… I’m not explaining this well. He seemed really grateful, V. Like he thought I was doing him a favor by letting him scrub mushrooms.”

“Did you have a good time?” Her question is less hyper, more introspective than I expect.

“It was nice. He’s really nice. Just really sad.”

I’d thought about it all night. All In our few days of knowing, what I’d seen most from Kris was gratitude. I wore his jersey, I let him pay for groceries, I showed him how to make dinner. It was extremely lopsided – I hadn’t actually done anything. Not anything worth the look in his eyes. I felt like a fraud, claiming credit I didn’t deserve.

“I said I’d set him up with an appointment at my studio – he’s a mess physically too. No wonder you were worried about him.”

“He just needs someone who can take better care of him.”

I shake my head as if she can see it. “I can barely take care of myself.”

“Riley, you’re already helping.”

We hang up and I consider the phone in my hand. Normally I wouldn’t pair a male friend with a male massage therapist, just because some guys thought it was weird. But the Penguins trainers are all guys, so it would be normal for Kris. I tell myself that a male therapist is stronger and Kris really needs someone capable of deep tissue work. But really I’ll be damned if I’m going to let some other girl put her hands all over his nearly-naked body.

“Calm down,” I growl at myself. I really want to do it. But of course I can’t. So I dial Danny, our resident sports specialist, and ask a favor. Sunday is the busiest day at the studio, but Danny only works half-days. He gives me a little shit before agreeing to stay late and take Kris’ appointment this afternoon. With a deep breath, I dial Kris’ phone number.

“’Ello, Riley,” he says in that voice you can feel like silk on your skin.

“Hi Kris,” I croak.

“Thanks again for dinner last night.”

“I had fun. And I made you a massage appointment – can you go today? Our best sports guy had a time open at three o’clock.” Please please please, I think. It makes no sense to get so worked up but I really want to help Kris. And if I can’t do it with my hands at least I can get someone else to.

“That’s perfect. I’ll sleep very well for the game tomorrow. Are you working today?”

I nearly sigh with satisfaction. “Yeah, I have to go in now. But I should be around at 3 when you get there. I’ll try to say hi.” I give him the studio address and phone.

“Thank you, Riley. You’re… really nice to do this.”

“It’s nothing, Kris. I just hope it works.”
____

I want to tell Riley that she’s really different, that she’s the kind of person everyone wants in their lives. She’s kind and considerate and I wish I were in a place to do something about it. If this massage can help me physically as much as she’s already helped me mentally, I know I’ll have another thing to be grateful for.

At two thirty I head to the studio. It’s early, but I would like to see her between appointments. One other young guy sits in the waiting room and I hope he’s not her next client – he’s good-looking and the thought of her touching him like she was touching me makes my heart race with jealousy. The receptionist is talks in hushed tones into the phone. She tells us it will be just another few minutes before she slips into the hallway.
____

“WHAT?” I say in a whisper so loud it’s nearly a shout.

“One of Danny’s regulars just called in with an emergency appointment – he threw his back out playing racquetball.” Eileen says. She acts as receptionist on Sundays because they’re so busy, but she’s majority owner of the studio and our boss.

“Tell him Danny is busy!”

“Riley, this is a once-a-week standing appointment. He knows Danny usually finishes at three – this is important. He’s a VIP client.”

I point toward the waiting area where I know Kris is sitting, knit cap pulled down over his hair and hands pressed between his knees. “Do you know who that is? Kris Letang, Pittsburgh Penguins? That’s VIP, Eileen. I was doing him a favor.”

“Well now you can really do it, because I’m giving your three o’clock to Jessica.”

“Give Kris to Jessica.” As I say it I know it’s stupid. Jessica is new and she’s pretty good, but needs experience. And a sports-related session is going to be well beyond her current capability. Oh my God. This is getting away from me really fast.

Eileen gives me her patented no-bullshit look. What follows will not be a question, because if you get it wrong you’re getting fired. “Are you trying to tell me you will have a problem being professional with this client?”

“No!” Again with the whisper-shouting. “No, Eileen. I just… he’s my friend.”

She puts a hand on my arm. “Riley, you’re the best person we have for sports-related after Danny. If he’s VIP I would give him to you anyway. If he’s your friend, help him out.”

I step into the massage room and close the door. It’s ready to go – low lighting, scented candle, earthy music, 700-thread count Egyptian cotton sheets. There’s a table full of oils and lotions and… oh God. I take a deep breath, try to think of Margaret Thatcher naked on a cold day and head for the lobby. He looks up the second I walk in.

“Hey Kris.”

“Hi Riley,” he stands, wiping his hands on his jeans. “How are you?”

“I’m good, how’s your neck?” Ask someone that and they will always roll their head around to check. He does it now and I can tell he’s stiff by the limited range of motion.

“Okay,” he lies.

I glance out the window to break the gaze of his liquid dark eyes. His car is there, with its seat warmers and supple leather…. “Well the therapist you were supposed to see got called out on emergency, so you’re with me today.”

Those bottomless brown eyes go slightly wide and my heart kicks like a horse. His lips part like words have spring to mind, then he swallows them. “Is it okay?” His voice is soft, like he knows I don’t have a say in the matter.

“Yes. And I don’t even have to ask what’s wrong.” I give him a single nod, hoping it seems resolute and lead him down the hall. The room is just as enticing as I left it, one red lampshade away from being a boudoir. I’ll never be able to look at it the same way again. “You’ve done this before, right?”

He has and so I show him where to hang his clothes on the back of the door. In the dim light his eyes are black. His hair and scruffy bear seem dyed with ink and I want to touch them to see if it runs. We’re close together in the small room and I think of hugging him, of fitting against his body like a key in a lock.

“There’s a blanket on the shelf if you’re cold, then just lay on your stomach and I’ll be back in a few minutes.” I nearly slam the door in my hurry to get outside.
____

The string of French expletives that runs through my head would make Max proud. I stare at the soft-looking sheets and inhale the scent of lavender. I’m either in or I’m out… and I’m already in the room. Merde. I kick off my shoes and start to undress. I wished for this – well not this specifically, because I do not have a death wish. But I want her hands on me, her fingers to work the same magic I felt last night when she massaged my neck. At least I wore nice shorts. Now if I can concentrate on not ruining them when she touches my skin… knock knock.

“Come in.”

Riley pokes her head around the door before coming in. “All set?”

I’m on the table with my face turned toward her. She wears yoga pants and a t-shirt that don’t do a lot to keep my heart rate in check. So instead I look at her shy smile, relieved that she’s uncomfortable too.

“You sure this is okay?” I ask again.

She puts a hand on my back, her skin burning hot through the sheet. “Don’t worry about it.”

I put my face into the cradle and close my eyes. I can hear her moving around, then the plastic noise of the plunger being pressed on the oil bottle and her rubbing it between her hands. Despite the soft cushioned table and warm sheets trying to make me drowsy, my pulse is racing. Again Riley presses her hand over the sheet, then draws it down to expose my back. She stands at the top of my head, leans forward and runs both hands down the sides of my spine.

I groan involuntarily. Her touch is firm and strong, the oil heating with the friction of her skin on mine. The pressure releases pain like a wave, strongest at my neck and shoulders, less across my ribs. As she moves over my lower back, I feel tension again.

“Tell me if I press too hard,” she says. “And it’s okay if you want to fall asleep.”

I mumble a response as every molecule in my body is trained on the feel of her fingers. She kneads out my upper back, testing for tender. There are more than a few. Each one earns a little exploratory work then she moves on like she’s mapping me. When she has the scene in mind, she sets about releasing tension with a variety of strokes. It feels dizzying – stabs of pain mixed with swirls of pleasure. I can already tell she’s very, very good at this. She grasps my bicep and lifts, activating my shoulder blade so she can work underneath it. I hiss as she hits a spot.

Riley holds her hand flat to the place like a compress. “Okay?” Her voice is soft – everything is soft: the sheets, the music, her skin. I nod against the headrest. She moves down my back, using her forearms across my ribs and her fingers at my spine. The sheet is warm over my back as she replaces it before moving on to my leg.

I take a deep breath, like I’m preparing us both for the fact that she’ll be touching my thighs and working right up against my shorts. I pray that I can keep it together and meditate on the healing energy of her touch. It’s very erotic and hard to ignore. Riley tucks the sheet right up under the edge of my shorts, her fingernails brushing the skin of my backside. She works my foot and ankle, finds the ticklish spot behind my knee and pushes the heels of her hands hard up my outer thigh. It feels so good.

“God you’re strong,” she whispers, almost laughing.

“You too,” I say. I’m not the biggest guy but I am very well-muscled. Riley is really getting a lot out of me. She continues to find problems I didn’t even know I had. Only once, as her fingers slip over the inside of my thigh, does my brain ring the fire alarm. Otherwise I am remarkably calm and collected. She starts on the other leg, hitting the ticklish spot on purpose and giggling softly. Then she sets herself to work.
____

I will never be able to give another massage. Kris is pretty much ruining my professional life, laid out on this table like a pile of clay begging to be molded and folded into perfection. His skin is baby soft, his muscles hard and pronounced and the injuries numerous. Bruises, knots, pulls… his body is a war zone. No wonder he’s had such a bad time; the body focuses on physical healing before mental. Maybe I can help speed the process.

I cover his leg, pushing away thoughts of what will happen when he rolls over so I can massage the front. His arm is wrapped in a huge tattoo. As I stroke at the incredibly defined tricep and bicep muscles, I admire the work. His forearms are rock solid, but he moans softly as I press my fingers into the soft underside. That’s a favorite of office workers with mild carpal tunnel syndrome.

“That feels amazing,” he says quietly. I usually only do it twice, but I give Kris a few extra passes.

He is impossibly beautiful. He also has a lot of legitimate musculature issues that fascinate me – a normal person would cry until they were hospitalized only over a few of these aches. Kris has a bucketful and still trains daily. I know hockey players are tough but this is a whole new world. I start on his other arm.

“Someday, can I meet one of your trainers? I’d love to find out how they handle all these injuries.”

“No. You are better. Don’t learn from them.”

I laugh and squeeze down on that tendon that makes him moan again. My favorite massage to receive is a hand massage, so I try it out on Kris’ big paws. As I hook my pinkies around his fingers and spread his palm wide, I get a little woozy at the thought of that hand touching me. He’s putty by this point.

“If I lift the blanket up this way, can you roll over?”

It’s a real question. I’m pretty hot-and-bothered; I wouldn’t want to get into a car accident on the way home because I’m definitely not wearing clean underwear. I don’t know if Kris is doing any better. But he consents and I resist the urge to accidentally drop the sheet and look at him in his boxer briefs. He shimmies down the table. I lift his head to detach the headrest, running my hand through his hair. It’s as soft and sexy as advertised. He smiles, eyes closed.

“I’ve wanted to do that since I met you,” I admit, smiling at myself.

“Feels good.”

I massage the front of his biceps – one arm then the other. My work on his upper thighs might leave something to be desired, but I’m genuinely nervous. I swear each ridge of my fingerprints drags slowly across his skin for maximum friction. I have never seen quadriceps like his and I need my elbows and forearms to get any kind of purchase. When I finish his other leg, I reward myself with his biceps and shoulders; they are safer territory but no less mind-scrambling. Thank God I know him, I think, or I’d have to find a new career after this. If a regular client ever got to me like this I would make him my last. And that’s why you don’t work on guys you know.
____

Riley uses her knuckles along my deltoids and I bite my lip to keep from crying out. They are tight like a sail full of wind, solid and immobile. She tries to find a way in, eventually nicking a weak spot and working her way beneath the strained muscle. The pain burns hot then floods with warm relaxation. It won’t last forever but she’s granting me a reprieve. She lifts my head, turns it to one side and rubs her thumbs along the exposed tendons. Before going to the other side, she circles my earlobes between her fingers.

“Do you want me to do your chest? I don’t always, but you might find it helpful.”

I do want her to. I’ve had a chest massage before, usually by a trainer when I’ve strained a pectoral or a rib. This is somewhere between maintenance and bliss and the thought of her running her hands over my chest is probably too much to contemplate unless I want my feelings to become very obvious. I wonder if that’s what she’s worried about.

“Why?”

Her hands still knead at my neck. “When someone’s had a rough time emotionally, it can affect the body physically. Especially the chest. I noticed that you round your shoulders a little – could be your pecs pulling inward.”

It is that and more. It’s my body trying to curl into a ball and protect itself. It’s my stomach guarding against a punch. “Okay,” I say.

She leans over me, the blades of her hands going together down toward my sternum. Working over my chest, she targets the area just inside my shoulders at the top of my chest. As soon as she touches it I realize how tender I am. I’ve been mistreating those muscles for weeks and they are not happy. Her even breathing soothes me even as she lights up trails of sensation across my body.

“Ugh,” I breathe out as she hits a sore spot that runs down under my arm. Instead of stopping she does it again, and again until I no longer feel the little trail of fire. Her fingers drag across my chest and find the same pain on the other side. Eventually she returns to my neck. My chest is sore, but in a new way.

There’s already less tension in my neck, even I can feel it. Her hands get more muscle, her strokes get more depth. Already I know I’m in for the best night’s sleep I’ve had in ages. Riley massages my scalp and runs her hands through my long hair a few times. I wonder if they teach that in school. When she’s finished, she puts her hands on my shoulders and looks down at me.

“Feel better?”

“That was amazing.” I want to tell her I’m glad the other person was called away, but can’t figure out how to make it sound okay.

“I’ll be outside.”

I’m a little weak in the knees when I try to stand. I want to cry, to sleep, to wrap myself around her and see if she has any of that healing energy leftover that I could absorb.
____

The waiting room is empty. I could really use a seat but he should be out in a minute. When he’s gone I can pass out on the floor. I flex my hands, stretching the battered muscles that just got the workout of their life.

His winter coat is army green with his knit cap sticking out of one cargo pocket. Now that I know the silky feel of his hair, I almost wish he were wearing it instead. I can barely take looking at his hair without being able to touch.

“Are you okay?” He catches me wiggling the feeling back into my fingers.

“Yeah. I’m not used to working on someone so strong,” I say. He takes my hand in his and puts his thumbs into the palm the way I did inside. I suck in a breath – the pain is sudden but passes after an instant. Kris rubs the base of each finger in a small circle.

“You’re a quick learner,” I tell him.

“Thank you,” he says in a low voice. We are alone but massage always leaves people feeling a little quiet. “For this. I feel better already.” He switches to my other hand, holding it in his giant one.

“Should get you to the game tomorrow at least.”

He looks up from my palm. “You’re still coming, right?”

“Yup. Still have your sweater.”

His eyes are soft and dark lashes fringe a sleepy puppy look. Already I can see the tiny hint of sadness coming with it, creeping in on the edge of fatigue. Any help I provide won’t last that long. Apparently I have no instinct for self-preservation because I draw Kris into a hug.

His body is dead weight, but the limp kind that comes with relaxation. More than anything he could say, the feel of him says I have done good work today. Across my back his arms fall together and I think he could sleep right here, standing up. We smell of the same oil, the scent blurring the line between where he ends and I begin.

“Go sleep. See you tomorrow,” I say into his ear. Then I kiss his scruffy cheek. As he pulls away, Kris slowly brushes his lips against my smooth skin.

“Thank you, Riley.”

“Night Kris.” I wave as he walks away.
____

Five

Saved by the bell. I have to get out of that living room before Kris even starts thinking in French. There is only so much a girl can really take. As it is I catch him looking at me in a tired, hopeful way. His eyebrows raise a little and his eyes just follow me around the kitchen. With two towels wrapped around his hands, he takes the roasting pan from the over and prods the carrots with a fork.

“Done?” he asks. He just tasted one, he knows the answer. Poor guy doesn’t even trust himself to make dinner.

“Done.”

There’s an actual dining room, but Kris puts plates on the kitchen table. It’s cozy in here with the warmth of cooking. He transfers the meat, potatoes and veggies to a dish then watches as I strain the leftover juices into a bowl and pour them over the food. He won’t let me carry anything, though the roast weighs less than four pounds. Instead I get us another round of beers.

He pulls out my chair like an awkward first date, then pushes me in close to the table without so much as grazing my back.

“Thank you, Riley.” He says my name a lot, more than people usual do. I like the way it sounds with the r rolling softly around on his tongue before sliding into the rest of my name. But then I think he’s probably reminding himself that I’m not her.

“Thank you for inviting me over.”

He dips his head; that fall of hair covering one cheek. “Not so nice when I make you cook your own dinner.”

I pass him the carving knife. “You did half the work.”

We were doing okay, and now I want to cry. His dark brown eyes are wide and soft, like he wants me to repeat what I just said. Like a kid earning praise from a parent when all he wants to do is make them proud. It’s just dinner, I feel like saying. It’s obviously more than that to Kris.

And as dinners go, it’s pretty great. We compliment the food repeatedly as we search for other things to talk about. I ask about Quebec and he tells me about summer. He asks about college and I tell him about California. Distracted by the food, conversation seems to come more easily to him. We talk about movies and books and places we’ve visited. He goes to the fridge for drinks and when he comes back, he inches his chair closer to mine at the corner of the table.

Finally we finish. It’ll be a while before there’s room for dessert and the moment he realizes that, a hard shell of worry forms on his face like ice on water. More time, no set plan. I know he’s having a hard time of it but I’m getting pretty tired of seeing him panic at the idea of having to hang out with me. Suddenly I feel as if I’ve overstayed my welcome.

“You can eat the dessert tomorrow, I’m so full.” I start to collect dishes from the table, piling them. This has probably been a really big day for him and I want to be sympathetic. It’s tough when he looks at me like I’m a savior one moment and a leper the next. I make it to the sink with an armload of plates before his chair scrapes across the floor.

“Stay.”

I’ve never seen a man standing look so small. His shoulders are rounded, his head hangs just enough so he can still see me through eyes looking up. Even his knees seem to bend a little, like he’s holding up something heavy.

“Please.”

I know it’s a bad idea and I don’t care. I take three steps and wrap my arms around him.

He exhales loudly. It’s not a sigh, it’s a forced breath like I punched him in the gut. But really he’s just making room. Every part of him is heavy as it anchors itself to me. I put my face into his neck this time and let one hand stroke his long hair.

“I’m sorr…,” he starts.

“Shhh.” I don’t want him to apologize for the way he feels. I just want him to feel better. He relaxes another inch, separating his hands from around my waist and pressing each one flat to my back. We stand there forever, just hugging it out. Some of the tension in his body eases and his breathing softens to a normal rate.

“Riley,” he says quietly. That’s it.
____

I don’t know what to say. I don’t even know what to think, standing her holding her like I have the right to be this close to anyone right now. This is the third time she’s been in my arms and the third time I’ve felt like I should never let go. Pressed against me, Riley feels the way honey tastes: warm, sweet, slow.

Slow.

I tell myself again what Vero said: “Take it slow.” I don’t think that included Riley rushing to hug me. I must have looked as bad as I felt to inspire that reaction. Not that I’m complaining.

No words come to mind, not that I’d share. Weakness for letting it go this far, sadness that if she comes to care about me she’ll just end up hurt. I hate myself already for not being able to stop this. Her fingers rake through my hair, making me tingle from head to toe.

“I know you had a bad time,” she finally says. Her back pushes against my hands and looks me in the eye. “Vero told me.”

I knew V would have and I’m glad. I may be spineless but at least I’m not a liar. Riley’s not done though, and her words surprise me.

“I’m so sorry, Kris. No one should ever have to feel like that.”

I wonder what she thinks I feel – what she sees on my face every time her brow knits and she looks ready to. I wonder which emotion from my arsenal Vero chose to highlight. My hands rest at the small of Riley’s back as she stays close.

“Unwanted,” I say out loud. I don’t mean to share it with her, but it just comes out. It sums up just about everything, including how pathetic I feel confessing to a stranger at nine o’clock on a Saturday night. Next I’ll start crying and then we sign each other’s yearbooks.  Riley doesn’t say anything else. She just slips back into my chest and rests her face against my collarbone. The tip of her nose touches the pulse in my throat. If I tipped my head down I could kiss her lips. To my credit, I simply stay still and hold her.

It lasts a long time. Riley rubs her fingers into my neck, gently massaging the tightness. The individual knots in my muscles begin to soften, pulsing as blood flow returns reaches to the long-dead spots above my heart. I moan a little.

“Come here,” she slips free and takes my hand. In the living room, she sits on the couch and puts a pillow on the floor between her feet. “Sit.” I definitely passed puppy obedience class because I don’t even ask why. Seconds later, her thumbs are pressed hard against the tendons at the base of my skull. I suck in a breath.

“Relax,” she urges. Her other fingers join in, pressing along the sides of my neck. It’s like the combination to a lock – the sides force the muscles in the back to cave. Soon her fingers are sliding deeper as she finds purchase among the tension. She rolls her wrists, making my neck circle.

“Mon dieu,” I whisper.

“Do you get migraines?”

I do. They’re awful. As I get older they have lessened – they were worst during junior hockey and my first few years with the Pens. But every once in a while I find myself crippled by a headache I’m powerless to fight.

“How can you tell?”

“Either that or you’re a swimmer. These muscles are really overdeveloped, right here.” I hiss sharply as she hooks her fingers into my skin. “That happens to people who carry tension all the time, like those who get migraines.”

“Do you get them?” That would be too much – someone who understands the pain and fear of an illness that targets your brain and which science cannot explain.

“No, but a lot of my clients do.” Riley moves her hands from my neck to the points where my shoulders start to rise. With a single pinch and press combination, she sends a searing pain through my shoulder. Then just as quickly, it’s gone. The pressure point beneath her fingers throbs dully.

“You’re a masseuse,” I realize out loud.

She puts her face down next to mine and I can feel she’s smiling. “And you are a mess.”
____

Normally this would be a very clinical experience for me. When I work on a client, I try to send positive energy their way while really working from a detached, anatomical standpoint. The musculature of the human body is like a puzzle and there are ways to help the pieces fit together.

But now I’m just torturing myself. Kris’ physical reaction is s blissful reward and I know I’m really helping him, maybe even more that I did by just being nice. But it changes our dynamic. Massage is very physical for the recipient, and as the practitioner I’m trained to keep it cerebral. Yet Kris’ skin threatens to sear my fingertips through his shirt and all I want him to do is kiss them. I work on his trapezius muscles for a minute – they’re so hard my fingers start to cramp.

“Are you seeing a physical therapist?” I ask, taking a break to flex my hands.

He shakes his head. “It isn’t usually this bad. Just since….”

Ah, the elephant in the room. Only now we’re touching and there is heavy breathing and physical release being shared. Just not that kind.

“You should see a trainer at least. If you get too tight, it could trigger another migraine.”

“I know,” he says quietly. I realize he’s been trying to decide what’s worse – the emotional pain or the physical. Then he turns slightly, pulling a handful of hair from his face. “You’re very good. Our trainer is a little… meaner.” His wide shoulders are between my knees and he looks up with those bottomless eyes. A hint of elfin smile plays on his lips.

“There are a few great people at my studio. I could make you an appointment.”

“Okay. You’re right, I should go.” He sighs, then pauses for a second. “You don’t….”

I don’t take clients who are friends, especially guys. Especially guys who look like they inspire French lingerie designs and late-night trysts. Especially guys who look at me the way Kris is – wounded, confused, desperate. I’d love to say I see lust in his eyes but I think it’s just the blood flow returning to his brain.

“Not people I know,” I tell him.

He sits up beside me on the couch, still lolling his neck and enjoying the freedom of movement. I think quickly of dessert and wish Kris were on the menu. But he’s a little out-of-season right now. Instead I decide to be grateful I could help him in another way, in any way at all.

We eat dessert in the kitchen, spooning ice cream and strawberries into the pound cake rounds and layering them up. The balsamic marinade goes over the top. Kris keeps the spoon in his mouth as he lets the first bite melt on his tongue.

“Delicious,” he says. I wish he were talking about me.

A few layers of ice between us have been broken. We’ve been alone together for hours with only a few two-alarm fires. We finally mentioned the issue looming over us; his recent heartbreak is almost a topic of conversation. He told me his migraine secret and I told him my job secret. And I touched him without burning up. Maybe we’re going to be okay after all.

When dessert is gone and we’ve licked our silverware, I help Kris load the dishwasher. He soaps up my roasting pan and the other cookware I brought, dries it carefully and finds a bag to transport it. I straighten things slowly as we both try to drag the night out. I think he might ask me to hang around, watch a movie or something, but I hope he doesn’t. I’ll say yes and it’s not a good idea and then who knows what. But I’ll lose him right here tonight if I don’t take a step back.
____

I want her to stay. More than anything on God’s Earth I want her hands back on my skin, releasing me from the prison of pain I’ve been trapped inside. Already my body feels new and lithe. I will sleep through tonight, the first time in weeks. Riley has barely been here and yet she’s changed everything.

Of course I know it would be a mistake. I refuse to take advantage of her kindness, because that would not be kindness returned. Right now the kindest thing I can do I load up her car and watch her drive away.

“I’m glad I ran into you,” I admit. But it sounds wrong, somehow bulky when I mean to speak aerodynamically. “I had a good time tonight.”

Riley’s full smile is enough to make my body tense again. “Me too. See you Tuesday, Kris.”

I stay on the landing in the garage as she backs out carefully. When she reaches the road, it’s the first time she goes in the same direction I would go.
____

Four

Saturday is long. Longer than long. Suddenly my beloved day of doing nothing but lazing around is making me crazy: I can’t stop thinking about Kris. It has been thirty-six hours since we met.

“Damn it, Vero,” I say out loud. Of course I like him – she knew I would and from the second I saw him I knew it too. I think through the reasons why I shouldn’t, the reasons why I can’t, but I shake the image of his face. Beautiful, devastated, resigned.

No one should feel that way, I tell myself. No one should be made to feel that way. But if that is to be undone, surely it needs a hand skilled by practice. I close my eyes against the memory of his soft hair against my skin.

“Fuck.”

I lace up my sneakers and head for the gym. A few miles on the elliptical and a lot of Lady Gaga should help clear my head. It’s not crowded and I choose a machine in front of a television – today calls for double distraction.

I run for half an hour before the show changes. The television is set to FSN and I nearly stumble from the pedals as Penguins Live starts. They begin with highlights from the night before and I slow almost to walk. “Bad Romance” pumps through my earphones.

I finally spool back up and find that at a dead run, I can watch the show. Enough of my mind is occupied that it actually just feels good to see these guys I’ve come to know performing well and having fun. TK’s goal plays in slow motion and I laugh out loud. Endorphins always help settle my mood.

Later, clean and showered, I head for the grocery store. If I occupy myself with making a big dinner plus a book or a movie, then maybe see what some of the girls are doing tonight, I can keep myself from falling for a guy I cannot have. I continue thinking that right down the cookie aisle and into a bag of Double-Stuff Oreos.

I’m eating from the open package as I turn into the beer aisle. Everything is on sale, so I make a few passes trying to decide what I’m in the mood for today. On my third turn, I stop dead.

“Riley, hi,” Kris says. He’s got a baseball cap on backward, hair tucked behind his ears. A gray hoodie sweatshirt is zipped to mid-chest over a white t-shirt, with dark jeans and sneakers. His winter coat is tossed into the cart.

“Hi Kris.” I hope it comes out at a normal volume because I suddenly feel like I’m going to burst.

He has a pre-cooked rotisserie chicken and a plastic container of mushroom risotto along with a bag of salad and two tomatoes. And beer. Bachelor’s dinner, I think and it instantly makes me sad. I’m also going home alone but I have enough food for five: four pound pot roast, a pound of carrots, celery, potatoes, onions, chicken stock and biscuits, plus the fixings for my favorite appetizers. And that’s just for tonight.

“Are you having a dinner party?” he asks.

I blush. “No, I just eat the leftovers during the week. At work.”

He nods like that makes perfect sense, his lips pinched thinly and looking at his own purchases. “I couldn’t decide what I wanted.”

“Those chickens are really good,” I say then instantly regret it. Those chickens are really good? I carried a watermelon? God I hate myself.
____

This is it, I know. This is the sign that I was looking for. Riley is looking sadly at my selection, probably wondering if I can even take care of myself. I want to tell her that I’m not usually like this, that I simply don’t have the energy to do more right now. At least I’m at the store unlike the last week of nights where I’ve ordered take away to avoid having to interact with anyone. I thought that was why Vero wanted me at her dinner, but it turns out I was wrong.

Her long hair is pulled into a ponytail over her shoulder, silver hoop earrings glinting in the overhead lights. A blue winter parka covers a black sweater and her jeans are tucked into snow boots. There’s a hat on top of her purse – it’s a Pens Winter Classic knit cap with a pompom on top.

I should invite her over. Or ask her out. This is the last chance I will get – I’ve known her only two days and already the window is closing. She won’t stick around forever while I figure myself out. And forever is how long I think it will take.

Am I a sad loser or am I on my way to getting better?

“Do you want to come over for dinner?” I hear my voice say the words though I hadn’t yet decided on them. Her eyes widen slightly in surprise. Maybe she thinks I have forty cats and ten years worth of newspapers all alphabetized and sorted by the first letter of second page. I want to tell her I’m not crazy, but maybe I can show her instead. “I can make something else – actually cook something.”

She looks to her own cart, probably to get a moment to think. I reach into the cooler and pull out the case of beer I was going to buy. “And there’s beer.”

Her eyes come up and my heart lets loose like it was at the top of a waterslide. She’s smiling. “I could cook,” she offers. “If you like pot roast.”

We get in the checkout line together. I watch her unload the cart and then nudge her forward until I can add my stuff to the belt. Then I insist on paying for everything. “You saw how much we can eat.” My joke works and she purses her lips like she was thinking the same thing. “I will leave you some leftovers for lunch, I promise.”

Her car is a charcoal gray Mazda 3 hatchback. She gives me her number and I text her my address. She needs to go home for a few cooking supplies that I don’t have, or at least don’t recognize. We make a plan for her to come over in two hours. Only her six pack of beer goes with her when she leaves.

I sit in the parking lot for a minute, watching her pull onto the street on the far side. Again she lives in the direction opposite me, but my urge to follow her is quelled by the knowledge that she’ll be coming in my direction shortly. I make a quick mental list of things to do when I get home – it’s become a trick to focus my mind during the emotional roller coaster rides of late.

To stay on track, I begin as soon as I get home. Everything goes in the fridge. I quickly clean the kitchen – just a few rings on the counter from old glasses, some crumbs from the cheese and crackers I’ve been living off. There’s no mess because I haven’t been present in this part of the house for some time.

Anna never really liked to cook, but in the beginning we did it anyway. I was trying to impress her. She would have rather been out at a fancy restaurant where the only work was seeing and being seen. I thought it was romantic to stay in, just the two of us, and be creative. I was wrong. I gave up shortly after and only cooked for myself, which was hardly inspired. But the pots and pans are clean, the oven ready and I even have some perishables like butter and eggs in my fridge, in case Riley needs something.

Next I straighten the living room and the bathroom. It only took a few days of being alone in the house for me to make a mess of clothes and towels. The only people who’d been through since Anna left were the deliverymen with my mattress. Now I throw the discarded clothes onto that bed and shut the door.

My house is nice. I’d decorated everything before meeting Anna, so there wasn’t much of her footprint here. In fact, Vero had helped more than anyone. For the first time in a long time, I look around the place and feel proud to call it mine.
____

I stand in front of the mirror on my closet door, halfway into a pair of jeans. What am I doing?! I ask my reflection. Opposite Riley had nothing to say. I really am some kind of glutton for punishment, going to this guys’ house and practically begging him to make me fall. When I hit the cold bottom there would be no one but myself to blame.

Still I pull on jeans and boots, a bright green sweater than clings to my frame without being too revealing. I brush my hair till it shines, tie on a necklace and rub some scented lotion onto my pulse points. Just in case. I wear the same makeup I wore to Vero’s, trying not to look like I’m trying too hard.

The last things I do are tuck my mom’s pot roast recipe into my pocket and pack up my roasting pan and a few surprise items. Without giving myself a chance to get flustered, I head for the address in my phone.

It’s a slate gray house with white trim, big but friendly-looking. The garage is open and I pull in next to Kris’ sleek sports car. He opens the door to the house as I’m taking my things from the trunk. “Hi,” he says, taking the bag from my hands. He wears a light gray sweater with dark jeans, his hair gelled and pushed back from his face. Black crocs are slipped onto his feet, but he ditches them at the door and pads through the house in socks.

I let out a low whistle in the kitchen. It is gorgeous: granite countertops, modern fixtures and one of those overhead racks full of hanging pots and pans that I’ve always wanted. He’s laid out two cutting boards and knives, opened all the veggies and even peeled the potatoes. Some things, like the appetizer pieces, he didn’t know what to do with. He lifts his hands, palms up, and shrugged.

“I hope I started right.”

My fingernails bite into my palms as I clench my hands tightly. The tiny spikes of pain keep me grounded – otherwise I’d have kissed him right then. Instead I settle for a deep breath.

“It’s perfect, Kris.”

He stands aside and lets me separate all the ingredients, asking what he can do next. I silently thank God for the task at hand, because Kris keeps coming near me to help. I show him how to lay out the meat so it won’t take all day to cook – he watches me do it then does it again from the start himself, making me check his work. It isn’t difficult and he gets it on the first try. Next he carefully cuts the potatoes while I peel and chop carrots and celery. We add them to the pan with onions. Kris slowly and deliberately minces the garlic then laughs when I show him how to pound it with the side of the knife blade. He’s so strong I have to tell him to go easy. Finally the chicken stock is mixed with that garlic and spices and poured part of it over the meat.

He inhales deeply, smiling like a kid who just won the spelling bee. “It smells so good!”

As he reaches into the fridge and cracks two beers, I again wonder how long it has been since a girl has been nice to Kris. One who hadn’t wanted anything from him. Not that I don’t – I have a headache from keeping my eyes riveted well above his waist. But that isn’t what I mean.

“How long does it take?” he asks.

“An hour and a half.”

A flash of panic crosses his face. Ninety minutes with nothing to do – neither of us would survive that. His dark hooded eyes, the forever five o’clock shadow of his beard and the impossible size of his shoulders beneath that shirt… we’d either be insane or pregnant in under an hour.

“We can make dessert,” I say. The last bag I brought is something I had been saving for myself. It seems selfish now. Two pints of strawberries, a package of pound cake and a very pretty bottle of expensive balsamic vinaigrette join a pint of vanilla ice cream on the table.

I show Kris how to stem and slice the strawberries. He giggles as they stain his fingers and he eats every fourth one. I pour the vinegar into a bowl and add the cut berries to marinate. Finding a widely circular cup in the cabinet, I have him slice the pound cake thickly then use the glass like a cookie cutter to make circular pieces. I can’t resist eating a piece of the leftover cake.

“So good,” he says with his mouthful. The sweet, dense cake is heavenly but a very bad idea when you watch a devastatingly sexy guy eat it. His eyes close as he savors the taste and again I find something sharp to needle myself with.

My stomach growls loudly, making us both laugh. He thinks I’m hungry but that is really my hormones.

“One more thing.” I instruct him on removing the stems from the mushrooms, but only let him do ten. Then he swipes a dollop of cream cheese into the divot on each one. His giant hands dwarf the spoon and the tip of his tongue presses into the corner of his mouth with the delicate work. I put bacon strips for five minutes then we wrap half-cooked bacon around the mushroom caps and fix it with toothpicks. The whole thing goes in for another five minutes before they’re done.

Kris keeps his puppy dog eyes on me as he bites into the hors d'oeuvre. Then his eyes drift closed. I have to laugh – it’s the exact same face I make every time I eat one.

“Mon Dieu,” he says softly, breathing into his full mouth against the hot food. He was impressed before but now he is amazed. I may not be destined for Kris’ heart, but I’m still going through his stomach.

“That’s why I only made ten,” I smile.

He taps his bottle against mine. “Already an excellent dinner.”

I sip the smooth liquid and wonder why I never mind the fall until my face hits the ground.
____

I feel better than I have in months. Riley steals the last strawberry, chases it with her beer and I think how I haven’t been this happy in as long as I can remember. She’s taking her time. She doesn’t laugh at me for wanting to help and she actually takes the time to show me little things. I could have figured some of them out, but I like letting her teach me. And I want to get them right.

This is how I thought it would be with Anna: the two of us in the kitchen, laughing and eating half the ingredients before they made it to the dish. Of course I can’t touch Riley, that would be insane. But I hadn’t really touched Anna in a long time either. It doesn’t feel like it’s missing if you can’t really remember. So instead I watch Riley make herself at home in a place that hasn’t felt that way to me for ages.

The pot roast smells like a dream. The strawberries taste like sex. The bacon-wrapped mushrooms are a low blow to my already weakened defenses. If Riley so much as winked at me now I’d get down on one knee and propose.

She just goes into the living room and examines my pictures on the mantle. It was Vero’s idea and she even updates them at the start of every season. Riley picks up one of me and Sid at batting practice at PNC Park, right after Sid hit the ball out of the park. Our inside shoulders are touching and we each have a baseball bat over the other shoulder. If you don’t know Sid, I don’t think you know what his real smile looks like.

“How’d you do?”

I shrug. I did alright – some fly balls, a few grounders. Nothing like Sid. “It was fun. Sid played as a kid, could probably have gone pro. We thought the Pirates might offer him a contract after that.”

The corner of her mouth twitches. “You guys look so happy.”

She browses my bookshelf while I sit on the couch and torture myself some more by admiring the shape of her body. Her clingy sweater shows nothing but makes sure you want to see everything. Horseshoe-shaped stitching crosses her back pockets in case you weren’t already looking.

“Do you read in English?” she asks. All my books are in French.

“I can. It helps with speaking – sometimes I remember more vocabulary if I can picture the word.”

She tucks a leg underneath and sits on the other side of the couch. The bright green of her sweater illuminates her skin, making her hair darker, her eyes brighter. “What’s the hardest thing about English?”

That French is sexier, I want to say. Then I want to tell her exactly what I think of her, in a soft whisper, in my native language. I can express myself better and know exactly what I say without thinking. But I would just end up telling her how broken and hurt I am – it’s good for that kind of expression too.

“So many words are the same, but mean different things. Wind and wind. Read and read. Even if they’re not spelled the same: hear and here, write and right. If you don’t see the word and know the… context, it’s hard to understand.”

Riley nods. “I always thought the hardest thing about French was how the words all start with vowels and flow together. Just add an apostrophe and it’s like one long word instead of a sentence.”

If anything about me right now would flow together, I could teach her all the tricks to listening to French. I’m thinking about the perfect example to show her how meaning changes with conjugation, a phrase that will sound sexy when I say it, when the timer dings.

“Dinner’s ready,” she announces.
____

Three

I have never seen such a look in someone’s eyes. When I pulled Kris’ jersey over my head he looked like a kid at Christmas. I don’t know what it was about but that girl really did a number on this poor guy. I lost my composure for a minute and I had to do something. My heart felt fit to burst. When my lips brushed his cheek, all the air zipped out of my body. All I could do was turn and hurry away.

Vero spins in the hallway and throws her hands up. “You see that? Simple little thing and he’s so happy? Ugh! I want to beat that girl with Marc’s blocker when I see that look on his face.”

I just nod. It was not pretty.

“Riley, please say you’ll think about it. He needs this so much.”

I push her along the hallway. That’s what scares me – he really needs this. Everything about him is crying out for help and I don’t have the kit. But there’s no way I can stop thinking about it. We take our seats and I steer the conversation elsewhere, grateful for Kris’ jersey against the cold of the arena. Vero placed us away from the wives and girlfriends.

“Most of them knew her, the last girl. Some of them are not much nicer, but they are careful not to punch their meal ticket.”

“What was her name?”

She considers for a moment like she doesn’t want to tell me. Finally she says, “Anna.”

“Anna,” I repeat, looking down at where the cuffs of Kris’ sweater are balled into my fists. “She didn’t wear this, did she?”

It’s more of a statement than a question. This girl wouldn’t wear his jersey. Not if she wasn’t proud of him, didn’t respect him. Not if she took him for granted. It explains the look in his eyes when I put it on. There will be a thousand other girls in here with Kris’ name on their backs, but I already know that I’ll feel special all night because of it.

“Never.”

When the guys come out for the warm-up skate we keep our seats. I feel Vero watching me as I pretend to watch them. Of course I’m really only watching him. He’s a very powerful skater, moving with an easy grace and hard, fast strides. It makes me think about his thighs and before I know it, I’m fanning myself with the snack menu. The only thing to do is look away, which puts Jordan in my sights and I actually squeak. Max skates up next to him, laughing and my vision actually blurs. Vero pats me on the shoulder then raises her hand to catch the beer vendor’s attention.

The game is intense. I spend most of it with the sleeve of Kris’ jersey pressed to my face, alternately covering my gasps or hiding my eyes. Vero commentates colorfully on the other teams’ players and the referee’s calls. If hockey were on HBO all the time they’d hire her in a second. Halfway through the third, the Pens get the go-ahead goal. It turns out to be the game winner.

“Thank God,” she whispers, her own fingernails dug into the armrests. She leads me back toward the locker room but stops in a nearby room. It’s full of women and families. I’ve still got Kris’ jersey on but it’s the only one on anybody over fifteen. V steers me toward the snack table.

“We don’t have to wait long.”

Everyone’s eyes are on me and the number on my back. I feel self-conscious knowing they are sizing me up. I could be Anna’s replacement – maybe they liked her, maybe not. I could be some temporary puckbunny – there was no shortage of them in attendance tonight. Hell, I could be his cousin for all they know. Whatever they assume, I feel them passing judgment. Vero stays close, talking privately in the hopes that no one will interrupt us. I’m not ready to make up an explanation for why I don’t know what I’m doing here.

“Hey!“ Jordan comes through the door first. I swear even the married women catch their breath at the sight of him – ten feet tall, five feet wide and smiling like he can’t wait to peel your clothes off. Christ on a bike, he is gorgeous.

“Did you have fun?” he’s asking me. My tongue feels like the cork in a bottle so I just nod. I can see now why Vero never invited me here before. Without some kind of rudder I would spin right down the drain in this company.

Max arrives next, followed by TK. They chat with a few of the other people in the room but they don’t have significant others here. Instead they discuss options for where we’re going out. I watch TK from the corner of my eye, thinking how impossible it is that he is actually cute. Then there’s a hand on my back.

“Hi Riley.” Kris didn’t make a sound as he approached. His palm presses the 8 on the jersey, against the mesh where I can feel how big it is. Wet hair is combed back from his face and he wears a gray suit with a blue shirt and tie. The dark, woodsy smell of his cologne lays lightly over the scent of shampoo.

“Nice game,” I say stupidly. His hand falls from my back but he doesn’t move away. Instead a shy smile comes to his face.

“Were you warm enough?”

I nod, pulling the right sleeve to get the jersey off. “Let me give this back to you.”

He stops me with his hand again. “You can wear it next time.”

The look on his face is killing me. It obviously means a tremendous amount to him if someone will wear his jersey. Well maybe not just anyone, I think. But I am just anyone, I can’t be more than anyone else. His brown eyes are almost black and the sadness I saw the night before is still clearly upon him.

“We’re going out!” Max throws an arm across my shoulder and Kris narrows his eyes slightly. “Let’s get it, kids.”

We group up, but Vero has filled my seat in her car with one of the guys. She doesn’t bother to apologize, she just beams. Very subtle.

“I’m parked out back,” Kris tips his head toward the door.
____

I spend the game feeling like there’s a camera trained on my every move, like someone is watching. Because she is.

I don’t fool myself into thinking Riley might like me. My performance in the locker room made sure of that – she must think I’m pathetic. When she put on my jersey I looked like I’d never seen a girl before. I couldn’t help but feel like I’d won something. It’s stupid for an athlete to put so much importance on someone wearing his number. There are a thousand people in my number here tonight. But only she is really actually wearing it for me.

At least the game was a good one. If I can’t be a normal person, at least I can be a good hockey player.
The sight of her in that sweater in the lounge is even harder. All the WAGs are here, those people Anna was so desperate to fit in with and impress. Riley probably feels idiotic and hates me for making it happen, but it looks fantastic on her. She looks fantastic in it. When she tries to give it back, I can’t take it.

Then Vero pulls another trick and now Riley follows me down the hall. I have no idea what the hell I’m going to do in the silent solitude of the car, but here it is. She drops into the leather seat and leans back to buckle up.

“Oooh, seat warmers,” she purrs, relaxing heavily. They really are luxurious. I brush the hair from my face and place both hands on the wheel. Barely a foot separates us and I don’t trust myself.

“I’m glad we won tonight, since you were here,” I say carefully.

She smiles without turning toward me. “You guys lost badly the last time I came.”

Hmm, she had never mentioned if she even liked hockey or been to a game. I guess she had. I wonder what she thought of me, if she thought of me at all.

“Were you here with Vero?”

“No,” she smiled now. “I came on a date. He was even worse than the game. But it was a good excuse not to see him again.”

The cars around us rev up and I pull out as part of the caravan. Riley keeps the conversation going, relieving me of the burden of trying to sound normal when I feel so confused. Part of me wants to kick her out of the car for her own good. Part of me wants to pull over and kiss her. I could curse Vero and Marc for this, but mostly I am amazed that I feel anything at all.

We stop in a lot full of cars and she turns her whole body toward me. “Remind me to get this before I leave?” She tugs the jersey over her head then drapes it across the backseat like it’s a delicate item. The thin cotton of her t-shirt shifts and twists against the curves of her body.

The guys have chosen an Irish bar with tables and live music. Even on a busy Saturday night we can commandeer some space. Riley orders a beer and I get the same.

“Riley!” TK shouts as the band starts up its set. “How’d you like the game?”

“You mean how’d I like your goal?” she teases. He grins. “It was pretty awesome. And I thought you were gonna have a fight there in the second.”

“You should have heard what I said about his mom!”

Beers go around and Riley talks easily with the guys. I do my best to participate too, but the band is loud and I still have trouble thinking clearly when I look at her. More than once I catch Max watching me watching her. He gives me the Superstar eyebrow raise every time.

“Let’s dance!” It’s Marc and his hand is out for Riley. She is up and gone in a second, Flower towering over her. He’s all gangly arms and legs as he pretends he knows how to lead an Irish jig.

“So…,” Vero takes the chair next to me. I wonder if she was this relentless before she started spending all her time with professional athletes. I shrug. There’s nothing to say. Riley is great and I could really like her. Except that I am terrified, exhausted and I really don’t want to hurt someone because I don’t have my shit together. But I do want her; that much is clear.

“Give yourself a chance,” V says quietly. “Take your time.”

We watch Marc and Riley whirl around laughing. He wheels her out then winds her in with one arm, crashing their sides together. She might be having more fun than he is. She might be more fun than he is. I cannot take that from her.
____

I think I wish I’d met all these guys before Kris. They’re fun and friendly and ridiculously attractive almost across the board. For someone as deprived as I have been, they are an embarrassment of riches. Yet Kris is the most attractive. Maybe it’s because he’s brooding and wounded. I’ve always heard that girls like the emo guys, the ones they want to save. Never before has it known it to be true. On top of that, he is spectacularly beautiful in a way that almost breaks my heart.

Marc finishes dish-ragging me around the dance floor and hauls me back to the table. Kris ordered me a fresh beer which I accept gratefully. As I’m about to take my seat, the opening cords of a slow U2 song start.

“Dance?” Kris stands. It’s not fair – he’s so wide, so strong. I just nod.

We step into the crowd and he puts one arm across my lower back. With the other he takes my hand, holding it where his chest and shoulder meet. Just like the night before I fit right into him and he puts his face down toward my neck. We take tiny steps and say nothing. By the middle of the song, I feel myself melting like chocolate against him.

He lifts his head, dragging that now-dry silky hair across my cheek. His mouth passes close and every muscle in my body clenches in restraint. The darkest eyes I’ve ever seen stare right into mine from dangerously close proximity.

I want to kiss him. It would mean my lack of experience doesn’t matter. I want him to kiss me. It would mean that whatever he’s dealing with is something we can handle. A pipedream, a delusion. But I’m wishing with every fiber of my being as Kris puts his forehead to mine and closes his eyes. He doesn’t look at me again until the song ends. The band dives right into another jig but it takes us a moment to recover, nearly still amid the dancing bodies. Finally he leads me clear. The moment is broken.

I take a spot between Vero and Max, catching my breath. She sips her cocktail like everything is going according to plan. We last a few more hours. The guys are wiped from the game but happy to be basking in a win. They’re very friendly, full of raucous humor and crazy stories. More than once, I get asked when I’m coming out with them again. Each time my answer gets more assured.

“Vero, can I come to the game on Tuesday?” Before she can answer, four people say they’ll take care of it. I want to know if they’re doing it for Kris, if they can see what Vero’s trying to do. As close-knit as they seem I’m sure they’d look out for their boy.

“I could give you a better jersey to wear, a prime number,” Jordan offers.

“Or an even number,” TK tries.

I give Kris what I hope is an easy smile. “I’m all set.”
____

Vero catches my eye as we’re getting ready to leave, asking if I want to take Riley home. I do, though I’m not sure we’d make it past my house. I’m not sure of anything right now except that I probably should not have asked her to dance.

I didn’t believe my memory of last night. There was simply no way Riley could have fit into me like that. It seemed best to test it in a room full of people, where there was safety in numbers. Then she moved close and the crowd disappeared. It hurt to hold her even as I wanted to so badly. Even as I knew I couldn’t do it right.

I could have kissed her, though. If I were just looking to get laid I would have kissed her on that dance floor. Vero’s words rang in my head: “Take it slow.” I should go so slow that I stop completely, but that’s not what she meant. Riley seemed uncertain too, probably unsure what to do when someone who’s been stabbed starts bleeding all over you. She didn’t run away though. Damn her for not running away.

I shake my head at Vero. I cannot be alone with Riley again tonight.

Everyone heads for the door. The guys fist bump and handshake, Vero gives me a quick hug. Then Riley heads for my car. “I’m not…,” I start to say. I’m such an asshole. If she wanted a ride would I really say no? But I realize too late that’s not what she’s after.

“Jersey,” she says, pointing toward the backseat. I’d completely forgotten. The door beeps open and she leans in, one knee on the seat. Her shirt rides up to reveal a perfectly fair triangle of skin that I know is the width of my hand. Then she’s standing in front of me again.

“See you Monday.” She wears a mixed expression – half the worried look from the dance floor, half the happy look from table. Another quick duck of her head and before I can react, she’s kissed my cheek and is walking away again. For the second time today, I see number 58 attached to the perfect girl as she’s walking away.
____